Through Light and Love, the Angels Will Show
by thisoldporcelaincoffeeshop
Summary: Kurt and Blaine, a short two-shot of their parallel stories of coming out and both of their reactions before and after Blaine was beat up at the Sadie Hawkins dance. Trigger warning: Mentions of cutting, abuse, language, violence
1. Chapter 1

Takes place around episode 1x4

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, cutting, violence and harsh language

"You're disgusting."

_Slam. _

Blaine Anderson is thrown into the bed of lockers, handle crashing and burning into his too-delicate skin from malnutrition and stress. He pools himself on the floor, a heap of flesh and bones with a broken soul. A waste. They all take turns kicking, snickering and laughing.

He bites down a sob, curling in on himself like he has dozens of times. It's become custom now. He'll just wait for the bell to ring and gather his stuff up, go through class like an emotionless robot, only to go home and cry for hours on end. _Maybe I'll do it today, _he thinks.

—

_I can do this. I'm okay. They like me here. _Kurt breathes as he steps into the choir room. It's seemingly empty of contenders, that much is true, but it is filled to the brim with showtunes and friends, and it's everything Kurt wants right now. A friend.

Being on the football team was great. It boosted his self-esteem, shaped his thighs, gave him praise and helped him get some quality time with Finn. Quitting wasn't going to be easy, but he missed this. The ease and courage he carried here, like it's a whole different world. Out there, Kurt thinks, is filled with guns and spiteful words that cause his shoulders to shrink and his bravado to disintegrate.

In here, he can be himself without any worries. Sure, Santana and Quinn pick at his (closeted) sexuality at times, but Kurt knows they care. Knows that they won't really hurt him. Not like Karofsky or Azimio has.

His mind is then flood with memories of smelly dumpsters and meaty hands, pushing him and grabbing him. Memories of piss-stained lawn furniture taped to his house. Memories of rude words, of shoves and locker handles and the ground.

He shakes himself of the memory, staring at the empty choir room. If he wanted to be cheesy, he would compare it to an empty canvas. With every song, a new stroke. Every member, a new artist. It's great and he loves it.

_This is it, _Kurt thinks. _I'm ready. I need to be myself. _Kurt hikes his football bag further on his shoulders and heads to meet his dad back on the field where he's shmoozing up to Kurt's (soon-to-be-former) coach.

_Tonight. I'll tell him tonight about who I really am._

_—_

__Another loud sob elicits from the small, broken boy. He's curled up on his bed, stale with tears and sweat. His trembling fingers are wrapped around a pen, a tear soaked piece of looseleaf in his hand. Next to his bed are nearly hundreds of balled up wads of paper. He's writing it again, his note. _Tonight, _he thinks. _Tonight I'll end it all. _

He scrawls another sentence, before sighing and crumpling it up again, discarding it on the floor.

He gets up and opens is laptop, clicking on the 'facebook' icon. Maybe it's a bit masochistic, _but I don't enjoy this_, Blaine says under his breath. He just needs inspiration. Needs that push, a lewd comment that will convince him of his unworthiness so he can finally just end it. _For the better._

__He clicks on his profile. 'Blaine Anderson'. He internally blanches at the name. _Why me? Why do I have to be me, stupid queer. I'm useless, disgusting, a-_

__"Fag." Barks someone from outside his window. An egg is splattered against his window, followed by nearly a dozen more. He hears chuckles and the sound of glass breaking. _They're probably drunk, after all it is a Friday night and that's what normal high school kids do. And I'm not normal. I'm…vermin._

__He takes that as his push, unballing yesterday's letter and in big, thick letters, writing "I'M GAY." on the back and straightens it out. When he's satisfied, he ghosts his fingers over the cuts on his wrist, closes his eyes, breathes in deeply before rifling through his desk drawer for that razor-the one that calls like a siren in a storm every second of everyday. It glints, teases him before he holds it on his wrist. He applies just enough pressure to break the skin.

—

He takes a deep breath. "And what I am is- Dad, I'm gay."

"I know." He smiles.

And all that pent up fear and nerves comes out in that shuddering sigh because his dad doesn't hate him. Doesn't kick him out, doesn't think of him any differently. He still loves him, is still his little boy. He's still just little Kurt, and he's still just his dad. If anything, this brings them closer together.

—

_No. _Blaine chants in his head, removing he blade from his skin and wiping away the faint trail of blood it left. A small mark to match nearly the hundred others. Some faded, some fresh. Symbolic of every day he managed to stay strong, fight off the demons on his shoulders and continue on. _Maybe it's a sign,_he thinks. Suddenly, his mind flashes to an image of an angel-blue eyes and beautiful brown locks. Plump, pink lips whispering, _You're okay, Blaine. You're so brave, so strong. Stronger than all of them. You're meant to be here, you beautiful thing you. You'll know that soon, though. It'll hurt, but I know you'll make it through. You have to, after all you will save my life. Tomorrow's a new day, Blaine. You're better than them. Stay strong, gorgeous. It'll be okay. _And just like that, the image is gone, his worries and self-deprecating thoughts washed from his mind for a moment's time.

Suddenly, "Blaine, honey I- Blaine?"

Light pools throughout the room, casting a dull spotlight on Blaine's pale, sunken face. Heavy bags beneath his eyes, pale lips and dull eyes. Unfortunately, casting light upon that note. That note that states who he is, and it's all his mom seems to notice.

"James, get over here." She says icily. "This…_thing_ that we used to call our son is going straight to hell."

Blaine's heart stutters and stops in his chest, everything in his body washed with sadness and hate. Until he remembers, _Tomorrow's a new day, Blaine. You're better than them. Stay strong, gorgeous. It'll be okay. _

He has to stay strong. And he will.


	2. Chapter 2

t's mentioned in passing. His plans with Mercedes were abruptly cancelled-something about Tina and Rachel and needing 'girl' time. Kurt was persistent and insisted on coming, but the matter wasn't his buisness and here he found himself, sitting a spot away from his dad on their dingy little couch, the white noise of the basketball game in the background as he feigns interest in last month's Vogue.

There's a lull in all the whoops and hollers coming from his dad and Finn, and that's when Kurt knows it's safe to focus on the television. Commercials were a very settling, grounding thing that called for no critical thinking, and that's exactly what Kurt needs to do right now. Relax. With all the hype of Glee, coming out and Finn's moving in, his father pulling away, he's been on edge.

And that's when he sees the headline, and his interest piques. _Ohio Boy Brutally Beaten at High School Dance. _

_"Last night, a fourteen year old boy in Westerville, Ohio was found brutally beaten in his school's parking lot. Multiple abrasions were found on his chest, his ribs were cracked, and his head was cut open. We have word that he is stable and was induced in a coma. The young boy, whose name shall not be revealed at this time, was presumably gay and was attending the school's annual 'Sadie Hawkins' dance with a fellow classmate. The principal states that they are 'Working on seeking out justice for the boy, however, no suspects have been found.'"_

__Kurt's throat tightens up as he hears it, something in his heart twisting and turning, like it's wrenching in the most painful of ways and his heart aches for the younger boy. Sure, he doesn't know him but he's like him-gay. And what if that was Kurt? What if that was him, lying, lifeless on the ground. Kurt clenches his eyes shut a moment, willing the pricks in his eyes to stop stinging. It's really been an awful week, and this on top of it, is verging him on the edge of a breakdown.

Beside him, he hears his father clear his throat and mumble something that sounds like, "_Thank goodness they didn't touch my boy." _and looks back down at his newspaper, his face twisted in contemplation.

Kurt takes a shuddering breath before standing up, brushing off his trousers and prompts, "Would anyone like some sugar cookies? Mine are to _die _for."

"Sure. Thanks, Kurt!" Finn smiles that dopey smile.

Kurt just really needs a mindless activity to distract him.

_I wonder if that boy liked sugar cookies._

It's about a month before Blaine is able to return from the hospital. Arm slung in a cast, he's on his sheets, sheets that feel so foreign to him in contrast to the stark, prim hospital ones. Lights that are too dim casting shadows on his sunken eyes, a grotesque image of a boy who once had hopes, that once had dreams.

His parent's aren't home, but Blaine doesn't blame them. Can't blame them that they're upset and just trying to cope, to readjust. After all, Blaine's so-called 'chosen' lifestyle caused his dad's reputation to plummet in the marketing industry, them to be asked to leave their closely-knitted church community and his grandparent's writing them out of the will.

So yes, Blaine doesn't blame them. It's much easier if they pretend he doesn't exist. It'd be much better if he didn't exist at all.

Blaine looks down to a scrapbook, the one mad up of his few friends. A picture of his date- Kyle and him is strewn beside it. They're happy, dressed to the nines and grinning like fools outside Kyle's house. Blaine blinks back tears at the memory and wonders if he'll ever get to see Kyle again, if Kyle will _want _to see Blaine again.

His eyes travel down his bed to the pin corsage. He thumbs at it for a moment, gulping audibly before he crumbles it to dust beneath his fingers. He crumbles it to dust just like those boys did to him.

Just then, a thin stream of light casts upon Blaine's mangled face, all bruises, pale lips and prominent, purple stitches It's his nanny, and she coaxes him down into the sheets, cleaning up stale tissues and changing Blaine's bedpan. He'd never felt so useless, so vulnerable. It hurt to even move, to do _anything _that would distract him from the whirling, evil thoughts that seeped into his pores. A constant mantra of _"you're useless, pointless." and "you're better off dead."_

__So Blaine has taken to his bed against his own will, memories swarming of his last night being a fun, ambitious young boy with dreams of New York and Broadway and love.

Blaine's dreams don't look like that anymore. The thoughts of love muddles with thoughts of bruises and betrayal, of punches and kicks, of bloody lips. His thoughts of Broadway crushed in the hands of his attackers. His joyful thoughts of a loft apartment New York now twisted in distorted to thoughts of the Golden Gate Bridge and the fall beneath it. That's Blaine's dreams now, that's his plans.

But there's still that nagging feeling in the pit of Blaine's stomach. A feeling so strange to him-hope, potential, grasping at that straw like a lifeline. It's the only reason he's still here, the only reason he isn't giving it to the call of his razor, like a siren in a storm. He has that doe-eyed, glimmery spark in his eyes, that hope of forever and a possibility of _something _to make his life worth living. He doesn't know why it's there, but he doesn't want to give into this temptation. It only calls for more disappointment more pain. But maybe that's what Blaine likes best about it.

Kurt doesn't think twice of it when Blaine tells him about the attack. He stows it away for a later conversation, too caught up in prom plans to delve any further into the topic.

It isn't until years later on that it clicks. They're watching TV, cuddling on the couch in their shared loft apartment. It's been a hectic week, with Blaine getting his first real callback for an off-Broadway performance of _Chicago _when they hear the story on the news.

_"Two young boys were found mauled at their high school prom. The couple, two males, were reportedly being harassed all night. The offenders were caught and are now in custody, and the two victims are in critical condition at the hospital. More information will be shared in the next few hours."_

__Kurt feels Blaine swallow thickly, burrowing a bit closer and shifting uncomfortably. And it all just falls into place and he remembers. Remembers that news cast, remembers the story.

"Blaine?" He prompts meekly, "Are you okay?"

"Fine, I-I just,"

And just then, Blaine dissolves into tears, wrapping his arms tighter around Kurt's waist and nuzzling into his chest. Kurt brushes a loose curl off of Blaine's forehead and kisses his temple. "Shh, baby, don't cry. I'm here, Blaine, talk to me." And Blaine just crumbles then, resolving into nothing but stardust because he _does _have his forever, he has love and New York and Broadway-potential. That hope. And it's so, so real.

"Shh, honey, what's wrong? I love you, Blaine, tell me, what's wrong?"

And Blaine just gives a watery smile, leaning up and pressing a messy, off-centered kiss to Kurt's lips. In a hushed voice, he rasps, "Nothing. Nothing at all."


End file.
